The house smells like garlic and rosemary when I push through the door, gym bag on my shoulder, the t-shirt still damp at the collar from the shower. No bra underneath - the sports bra is in the bag with the soaked sweats, and I didn't put it back on, just pulled the t-shirt over bare skin. The cold outside made itself known on the walk from the cab.

In the morning I get up.

Not immediately — I lie still for a moment first, the way I've started doing, taking stock of the day before it begins. The chest there, the weight of it against the mattress, familiar now in the manner that things become familiar when you've woken to them for over a week. The mild awareness of last night's underwear, which has done what underwear does now, the slight damp of it, and I get up and deal with this in the bathroom before I do anything else. The mechanics of this have become unremarkable.

I shower. I dress.

It still being before 2 PM the Expo seemed to be closing up at this point and there were not a lot of people still heading for the parking lot. I took my time walking to the car and then let the car air out before I got in it. As I got in, I received a text from Cindy asking me if I would consider meeting her for a glass of wine at a lounge adjacent to the mall where I was now parked.

As I pulled the convertible into a parking space near Doctor Hartwell’s clinic, I began to wonder if I should have asked Lauren along after all. Somehow the overpass seemed taller, the shadows longer, and the alleyways between the buildings darker.

Garnet Smith was an experienced Marine when he was transferred to 48 Commando. His statuesque figure and shock of red hair made him quite obvious in any military parade, so his hair was kept short and hidden under his green marine beret. Otherwise he had performed well when deployed around Britain’s shores. He had picked up a Scottish accent from living in Faslane, and was comfortable protecting nuclear facilities as part of 43 Commando.

Once back at Sam’s place Sam got out his Ipad and started browsing through it while I put away my things and changed out of my dress and underwear. I came out wearing a pair of shorts and a silk blouse along with fresh undies. I then sat down in the recliner next to Sam and watched him go through a few screens on his Ipad.

I wake before the alarm. The room is dark, January dark, the kind that hasn't lifted by the time I'm up and moving. Theo went down at two and woke at four-thirty and Emily took that one. I could hear her through the wall, the low murmur of her voice, the silence after he settled. She'll be under for another hour at least.

Chantilly, Flowers For A Southern Belle

I was working in one of the Florida theme parks, not the big D world but still one that attracted a lot of tourists. The concept was mainly centered on water skiing and fast boats. For some of the other tourists we had beautiful gardens, with acres of flowers on display at all times, spread among some natural Florida landscape.

In the morning I did the regular routine, light makeup, jogging outfit, cap and stretching. This time Ted was washing off his car while he watched me. His conscious efforts to keep observing me again boosted my confidence but there was still that nagging doubt in the back of my head that I was going to be outed. As I stretched, I noticed a definite camel toe outline in my spandex shorts. This appeared not to have gone unnoticed by Ted.

Every year on Reassignment Night, the world changes and reality itself skips a beat. Every year, some people are transformed in ways that the cannot control or predict. These are some of their tales.

This is a collection of short vignettes taking place in the same universe as my story Reassignment Night.

The brochure was following me.

My phone rings at twenty past one.

"I've got it," she says, before I can speak. Her voice is different — faster, something lit in it. "The reactivation isn't a response to the gradient. It's a response to the timing. The nodes are pattern-matching the suppression interval and compensating. If we randomize the interval — structured pseudo-random within a fixed variance band — the mesh can't predict the next suppression event."

I sit up.

"Show me," I say.

"I'm at home. I've been running it on my machine."

I'm already looking for my shoes.